Choo-choo! Do trains have sat-navs? O, TomTom, Lord of the Straight Ahead, guide the trains along their tracks, up the coast roads and back – please don’t make them fall off again.

WEDNESDAY

Woe day? Wedding day? No, I got married on a Friday. I got married at Halloween and I married in silken black (this is a TRUE FACT), but I couldn’t help looking back. Ring o’ ring 0′ rosies, a pocket full of posies. O, TomTom, Lord of At The Roundabout Take The First Exit, guide dead ex-Simon to a nice place of cleanliness and peace and an abundance of stamps for his collection.

THURSDAY

I LOVE THOR, HEAR ME ROOOOOAAAAAARRRRR. (Months ago I roared in a post. It made me feel better at the time so now I have a little roar every Thursday morning before I make my Cumberland sausage sandwiches for my breakfast). O, TomTom, Lord of Leave The Motorway, guide the big Cumberland sausage lorries safely to my Tesco.

FRIDAY

Friday is now the only day I fry (burn) my Cumberland sausages.

Empty-headed no brain, fried brain, sizzle-pop. Skullduggery?

Freya, Freya, lend me your cloak so I can fly above the bald sea to see what I can see. O, TomTom, Lord of You Have Reached Your Destination, guide us not into temptation, or negation, or consternation. Forever and ever, amen.

Yesterday morning I was in a strange double mood, good because the weather was Spring-like, bad because I wanted to go to my MEMORIAL BENCH. I posted a post asking if someone would please lend me their TELEPORTER and I was so grateful and surprised by all the positive replies that I found my little going-out rucksack and filled it with the things I need for going out – Cumberland sausages, 5 bottles of laudanum, 4 packs of beta-blockers, bottle of Diet Coke, bottle of water, hairbrush, purse, Nokia Hard Bastard, and the little present that Scotty bought me. Then I opened the back door and sat down on the lino, as close to the outside as I could get, and I waited. I waited for a long, long time. A long, long, long, long time.

Nobody came.

I don’t know what time it was when I heard footsteps coming round the side of the house. I jumped up and nearly fell back down again – my right leg gave way, it must have gone to sleep because of how I’d been sitting (cross-legged like a Yogi). It was only Branwell though, happy for a change, so happy the smile almost skipped off his face.

“Dotty, sweet Dotty! What brings you such sadness on this glorious day of splendiferous sunshine?”

And he took my keys out of the door, grabbed my hand and pulled me OUTSIDE before I realised what was happening, then he locked the door, took my hand again, and away we went.

The street was heaving with PEOPLE, shouting bickering squabbling laughing brayingPEOPLE, a polarised muddle of the wealthy middle classes posturing and preening their way round the shops, and the dirty, thin and stinking poor. I couldn’t take it all in, there was too much bustle and noise – beggars called out for pennies; women argued with stall-holders, trying for a bargain that wouldn’t happen; scrappy, raggy children ran to and fro, ducking and dodging; a wool-worker coughed and hawked up a great glob of blackness from his lungs and spat it out right in front of me; barrows and carts clattered on the cobbles; horses whinnied and snorted; dogs barked; a handbell clanged and clanged – and Branwell whisked me through it all in seconds, the stench of sewage and sickness and cooked meat and rotten fruit and unwashed bodies so strong I could taste it.

“Hang on, where are we going?” I asked when we’d slowed to a trot and the sounds of the street weren’t so loud.

“Refreshments!”

“Eh?”

“A jar of cheering sweetness, my dear. Your face resembles the sad arse of a sow due for the slaughterhouse. O wretched maid of long torment, your smile would set my heart content. But woe is you and woe is me, diddly dum and fiddly fee. Ha ha ha ha ha.”

“Shut up, div. Tell me where we’re going.”

“There!”

And he pointed to the inn a few steps ahead of us.

“I’m not going in.” My heart was thumping.

“Yes, you are!”

And he pulled me to the door, kicked it open and dragged me inside.

It was so dull and smokey in there I had to blink loads of times before I could see. The room was small and dingy; brown walls, thick sawdust on the floor. A man with massive, black mutton chop whiskers stood behind the bar. Just two other people were there, an old man sitting in one corner of the bench seat that ran across the back wall and down one side of the room, and a boy collecting glasses from the tables.

“Dawson! Two jars!” Branwell shouted, though we couldn’t have been six feet away from the bar. He led me to a table next to the only window in the room but the panes of glass were so thick I couldn’t see out.

“Sit, sit!” Branwell gestured at the bench with a grand sweep of his arm. He sat down next to me, took his little box of snuff from his coat pocket, opened it and offered it to me.

I shook my head, “Eeew, no thanks.”

He took a big pinch and sniffed it up one nostril then the other. Quick as you like, he whipped out his hanky and started sneezing into it. “That’s better,” he said, his eyes gleaming.

“That’s fucking disgusting.”

He laughed. “No worse than many things.”

The boy brought the drinks to us on a tray, two great tankards of beer. It tasted so strong I had to sip it. Branwell downed half of his in one go.

“What are we doing here, Branwell?”

“Being merry! Sup your porter and cheer up. Have you eaten yet? I am ravenous, starved, I could eat a scabby dog. Dawson!”

“Aye, sir?”

“What’s cooking?”

“Mutton, sir. Broth.”

“Two plates, then. And bread, but only if it is warm. I want none of your mould at my table.”

“Aye, sir.”

The broth was lovely, full of big chunks of fresh meat and veg. The bread was even lovelier, soft and springy and warm. I sneaked a handful of Cumberland sausages out of my rucksack and passed a couple to Branwell. I put mine in a slice of bread and had the best Cumberland sausage sandwiches I’ve ever tasted.

“How’s little Emily today?” I asked when we’d finished eating.

“Still weak. Although your medicine appears to have done the trick. She was up and about this morning, at her desk rummaging through papers. Charlotte scolded her.” He rolled his eyes, sucked in his cheeks, jumped out of his seat and stood in front of the table, his hands clasped together in front of him – “Sister, sister, what ARE you thinking? Shoo, shoo, back to bed!”

I couldn’t stop laughing. He sounded just like her. “She’s not that bad, is she?”

He sat down. “At times she is a terrible harridan, Dotty. Terrible. There are certain particulars that should be kept within the family but quite honestly, I am at my wits end with her antics.”

“Why, what has she done?”

“She burnt many of my writings. Onto the fire, cast into the flames as though they were words infernal, penned by the Devil himself.”

What could I say to that? I knew she’d done some burning – after little Emily died she burnt loads of her poems and edited loads of others (little Emily told me), but I didn’t know she’d burnt Branwell’s stuff too. Before I could think what to say he said,

“They take me for a fool. The Great Published Brotherhood of Whispering Bells. They think I am blind to their secret.”

“What secret?”

He picked up his tankard but he’d emptied it. He banged it down on the table. “Published! They are published and yet they lie to me that they are not, and they continue in their lies day after day. I am not to be told their news for fear it will send me far into a mad wretchedness of mental agonies from which I shall not return.”

I stayed silent. So did he, after he’d shouted for the boy to bring him a refill. I took my Nokia Hard Bastard out to see what time it was but it wouldn’t turn on properly, no signal.

After a while he let out a big sigh. He sat up straight and turned to me.

“Accept my heartfelt apologies, Dotty, my friend. I am a ranting dolt, an angered berk who should know better. I promise I shall not allow our day to be further marred by talk or thoughts of my own grievances when my intentions are to bring a smidge of light and happiness to us both. We, the soul-sick, mired in woe…”

“Shut up, you rhyming twat.” I gave him a punch on the arm.

“Are you ready to move on to the next stage of our adventure?” he asked.

“What is it?”

He smiled, a great big beamy smile, and then he tapped me on the nose with his finger. “Wait and see. Wait and see.”

If you’ve already done these two things you are BRILLIANT and I award you my new award which is a very, very classy award, if I do say so myself. If you haven’t already done these two things GO AND DO THEM.

When (notice I’m not saying ‘if’) you put it on your own site, you can set your own conditions to manipulate your readers into doing what you want them to do.

This is a Happy Mother's Day flower for meine Mami. I can't give her a real flower because I don't know where she is.

If anyone got a post in their email that isn’t here now it’s because it was a PICTURE POST that I made for meine Mami for HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY with some lovely pictures and captions and it was lovely and it was FUCKING BRILLIANT – but it SHAGGED MY LITTLE BLOG RIGHT UP because I can’t do pictures. So I’ve made a little rhyme instead —

A HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY RHYME FOR MEINE MAMI

Where have you gone, meine Mami?

It’s been years since we last had a hug,

since then my brain has gone gammy –

it’s all manky and skanky with fug.

I miss your old legs, meine Mami,

and the fun and the laughs of our games

with the butter and mayo and jammy

that we spread on your varicose veins;

and your laugh, like a crying old donkey

with its tail trapped in somebody’s door;

and your eyes, even though they are wonky

and as grey as the dust on my floor.

Please, please come home, meine Mami,

your absence is harder than stone

and it hits with a quadruple whammy

each hour when I’m sitting alone.

Meine Mami, I miss and I love you

so much that it makes me feel sick;

when you want to come home I’ll be waiting

with a Cumberland sausage sandwich and a plate of McCain’s Chippy Chips and a packet of Hobnobs and a BRAND NEW BRICK.

… or it would have been if I could have been bothered writing a post. But I can’t be bothered, I’m knackered after all the commotions and shite so I’m going back to bed and this is all you’re getting today.

Anyone have a problem with that?

EDIT EDIT EDIT — I came back because I forgot to tell you what I did. LOOK HERE

THE DOTTY HEADBANGER AWARD

FOR BEING MENTAL AND LOVING IT

I feel like a horrible cow for not accepting awards that people give me so I’ve decided I’m still not going to accept awards, instead I’m going to GIVE OUT MY OWN AWARD because I’m nice and kind like that and it is bettereth to giveth than to receiveth. Also, I needed to show off and brag about my new-found skill of being able to WRITE INSIDE A PICTURE which I spent all morning perfecting.

I’m not really sure how this award thing works, but from what I’ve seen there are specific QUESTIONS TO ANSWER, so here are the questions for THE DOTTY HEADBANGER AWARD FOR BEING MENTAL & LOVING IT.

QUESTIONS TO ANSWER

1. How many bricks do you own?

2. How many Cumberland sausages can you fit in your mouth without chewing?

3. What is your most inventive way of using biscuits (or cookies if you’re American)?

4. If it was made compulsory to have a mental illness which one would you choose and why? (If you have a mental illness already you have to choose another).

So now I have to give it out to people – BUT I CAN’T, I don’t want to leave someone out and watch them sitting alone in the corner crying because they haven’t been chosen (like when the BITCHES who chose the netball teams never picked ME). So what I’m going to do is present it to EVERYONE WHO READS MY LITTLE BLOG AND EVERYONE WHO PARTICIPATES IN ITS MENTALNESS to say THANK YOU VERY MUCH and you all (y’all) can do what you want with it, either give it out and MAKE ME VERY FAMOUS or ignore it (at your peril).

P.S. You now have a choice of TWO pictures, mine (the one I sweated blood and tears over) or the new posh one made by clownonfire (the link to his blog is on the right at the top of Dotty’s Pet Blogs). Choose which one you want.

I am from the far place of shadows and quiet desperation, hiding inside layers of old wordstacks that litter these grey and thistled fields.

The wind, an eerie falsetto, wails in accents lost to all but the half-living, calling me out into the thick and sorry night. But I don’t mind darkness any more — what use is light if I cannot see his smile?

Savage storms blend into my grief with ease, leaving no trace, yet oceans rise from a single tear on the swell of all those tomorrows, gaping voids, chasms of fear, with only the writing of me to show me I am real.

The sun is gone and what once was precious is now dust. From this dust I spin stanzas that ache with the burdens of the lost, and tie grief-laden raindrops into knots that lie here beside me, piled up.

Over the poem comes the sound of a drum, yet the beat means nothing, nothing at all, mere counterpoint to the creak of a worn soul buckling before the final snap. Never, never was a life so long and so damned.

I run and my foosteps are light, but the very fall of them makes the grass bleed and the flowers shrivel to skeletal stumps. Round and round the wordstacks I go, charting the course of a life once lived, now lost.

I am from the far place of shadows and quiet desperation, no escape, no redemption, so I crawl back to hide within the confines of this poem. Where else is there to go?

THE CULT OF DOTTY WELCOMES YOU INTO THE FOLD. LEAVE ALL YOUR CASH IN THE BOX ON THE WALL. I NEED IT TO FEED YOU AND TO BUY THINGS FOR ME.

Join 893,362,288,098,743,561,332 Followers

Dotty’s New Blog

This is my new blog, Common Sense Is Dead

ALL THE SHITEY SUNDAYS

Shitey Sunday Picture Posts - Click on the big doomy cross to get to the list

Sister Agony Auntie Dotty’s Problem Page

Go here if you need advice. Click on her big red cross.

I LIKE THIS PICTURE

It's an endearing picture of an amateur trepanner. It reminds me of me before I turned pro, though it's obviously a male and I'm obviously not a male. Do you like it too? If so, click on his X shaped eye.

SWEAR SWEAR SWEAR AT JEMIMA

If this evil doll, whose name is Jemima, came and woke me up in the night I would swear and swear like a fucking trooper. To learn how to swear like a fucking trooper, CLICK ON JEMIMA'S EVIL EYE.

FOR AMERICANS ONLY

Are you American? Do you need a new job? Do you want to move to Britain? PUSH THE SPARKLY BUTTON to begin this new and wonderful chapter of your life. NOW INCLUDES CANADIANS.

Cumberland Sausage Count

73,698 so far today - yum yum!

Dotty Headbanger’s Shitey Family – The Whole Sorry Story

The ongoing story of me and my family. Click here if you want to know who's who and what's what.

A Very Nice Picture Of Kumblant

This is Kumblant Zozeech, a very sad pygmy were-zompire who is fast becoming one of my best friends (little Emily, watch out). To read his journals CLICK ON HIM.

Dotty’s Doo Wop Collection

This is a picture of one of the cd cases in my doo wop cd collection. I didn't take the picture. Either click on it to read the bit of shite in there or look at the drop-down list for the songs.

DOTTY BOOK REVIEWS

I was going to show you a stack of books to click on for DOTTY BOOK REVIEWS but I like this shoe.

Mucky Ducky & Fucky Ducky – Poetry in motion

CLICK ON THE YELLOW ONE TO KNOCK HIM OFF THE PINK ONE. QUACK QUACK.

Press Enquiries

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I don't do television or face-to-face interviews. I might do pre-booked telephone interviews but only if you can pay me in the Queen's precious coin. No Euros, no Dollars, and definitely no plastic cards with spying-for-the-government computer chips in them.

DOTTY’S PET BLOGS

Go and add your blog to DOTTY'S PET BLOGS and fly, my little ones, fly away to see each other, but come back to your Dotty or I'll curl up and sigh and cry and die and my pretty balloons will be thieved away by a passing guttersnipe.

DOTTY FILM REVIEWS

Click on the telly for Dotty Film Reviews. Be careful not to poke the eye with your cursor or A THING will jump out and EAT YOU.

THE DOTTY HEADBANGER AWARD

This new Dotty Headbanger Award picture was designed by clownonfire for posh people who want a classier looking award picture than the one I created - never mind all the time and effort I expelled doing mine. Click on it to see how to get the award.

THE BRICK & SAUSAGE AWARD

If I was an award, this is the award I would be.

A Dotty Award

An award for We Who Are Mental and for Normals who want to be mental. Take it and keep it for yourself or give it out like other awards - the questions that go with it will appear if you click on our great and beautiful flag.

THE BEST EVER BLOGGING AWARD WITH BINS IN THE PICTURE

I'll never make another nice award. This is it, the only one. LIMITED OFFER - grab it while you can because it won't be here for long.

KILL ME NOW, I’M AN AWARD SLUT

This award was made by Elaine at elaine4queen. I asked her if I could have it. There's no hope for me, I'll be posting pictures of cute fluffy animals next. Click on it to see more awards made by my talented acolytes.

ANYONE WANT TO ARGUE?

I just appreciate the structural engineering - what's wrong with that?